


And Dreaming

by curi_o



Series: Pain for Jayne [20]
Category: Firefly
Genre: Content: Angst, Content: Fluff, F/M, POV: Jayne Cobb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-30
Updated: 2006-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curi_o/pseuds/curi_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We can have <em>this</em>, though.  We can have the stars, the starsong.  I can teach you to hear it, too, if you ask.  I can teach you to swim the silence."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Grass
> 
> This is my very favorite PfJ ficlet. It’s been an interesting journey, this revenge mission of mine. Now it’s time to give a little back. Enjoy.
> 
> _Goes to visit his mommy._  
>  _She feeds him well; his concerns, he forgets them_  
>  _and remembers being small,_  
>  _playing under the table and dreaming._
> 
> _Take these chances._  
>  _Place them in a box until a quieter time._  
>  _Lights down, you up and die._
> 
> _— "Ants Marching", Dave Matthews Band_

* * *

i.  
His gaze rested on the grass beneath him. Nothing was green as grass. In the black, a body became lonesome for green.

Green was the color of life. He wanted to chuckle at the irony. The grass smelled sweet. It tickled his nose. An ant climbed onto his face.

He wanted to see the girl. Just once more, another moment with his River, and he could go under. He tried to move his limbs. He coughed and spat blood. 

He felt something heavy across his back, something warm and wet seeping through his cotton t-shirt. He saw, from the corner of his eye, a strand of dark hair over his shoulder. Too long. Not his. He felt a selfish gratitude that she was with him, still.

He’d heard that a man’s entire life flashed before his eyes the instant before he died. He hoped that wasn’t true.

A worn leather boot crushed the grass before his face. He heard the _click_ of a chambered round. His murderer coughed. He felt the barrel of a gun— _One of his girls?_ —against his hair, just behind his ear. The metal was hot; the weapon must have been in the sun a decent spell. This _was_ a warm day. Beautiful. Peaceful.

The bullet shattered his skull. His brain did not register it, nor did it register the passage of time, nor the feeling of intense pain. It did not sense at all. It offered up a memory.

ii.  
He was lifting in the bay. She was sitting on the stairs—in the exact spot he’d been left when Simon drugged him during that job for Niska. He was trying to ignore her, but she was counting his reps; every ten, she’d call the new number. 

He wanted her away from him—her presence was discomfiting.

The bay was bright and shadowy. He didn’t notice that River’d stopped counting until his arms suddenly gave out. As he flinched in anticipation, he wished Book were alive.

The bar didn’t crash onto his chest. He opened his eyes to big brown orbs. Her hands held the bar an inch from his shirt; her hair was a centimeter from brushing his face, her stomach just behind his head.

He began to panic. She was more dangerous than Reavers and a damn sight more handsome.

“Gorgeous,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Beautiful. Prettier. _This_ is handsome.” The bar returned to its cradle, her hands rested flat on his chest.

He grunted. He never could say the right thing; she was a reader. She would know what he was thinking, feeling, even if he was unsure.

“I would still like to hear you say it. When you _are_ sure.” And she disappeared into the shadows.

iii.  
It was late at night. He’d struggled for months since the bay. She sat on the bridge, peacefully watching the stars.

“They are so quiet when they sing,” she said as he stepped across the threshold.

Jayne paused. It was all manner of disquieting, the way she could see things without looking. “What’s it sound like, then?” he asked.

She stared through the window. “Life. Passion. Fire. Death. Everything in an instant and a roaring calm.”

She turned in the chair: looked at him, met his pained blue eyes. “I haven’t forgotten Ariel. I know the things you wish you could erase. I have my own. We two will not have eternal sunshine: will never have spotless minds.”

He met her wry grin with one of his own.

“We can have _this_ , though. We can have the stars, the starsong. I can teach you to hear it, too, if you ask. I can teach you to swim the silence,” she finished in a whisper, shyly dropping her big brown eyes to his chest.

He didn’t remember crossing the distance between them. He lifted her chin and kissed her softly on the cheek. “Teach me. Please. I’ll drown if you don’t.” And it was his turn to look uneasy. She did something to him: slowed him down, made his words pretty like hers, like _her_.

She looked up, then, and the movement drew his gaze to hers. She nodded slowly and stood. Jayne felt too big, clumsy and awkward, as he waited for her next move. She slid her small hand into his large one and guided him into the chair she’d vacated.

He tensed when she curled into his lap. His large form cradled her smaller body and he gripped the chair’s armrests, unsure of her expectations. She leaned her head against his left pectoral, over his heartbeat. She took his hands in hers and rested them on her stomach.

They watched, listened, swam the stars together for hours. Jayne felt River breathe, felt her tense before shifting a leg or an arm ever so slightly. When the novelty faded and she relaxed into the nearness, he tried to focus on the stars and their song. It was a moment to last an eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> This short piece is heavily influenced by Tobias Wolff's short story, "Bullet In The Brain," the abstract of which you can read [here](http://www.newyorker.com/archive/1995/09/25/1995_09_25_082_TNY_CARDS_000374168), on the website of The New Yorker. As far as I can tell, it was originally published in The New Yorker in its September 25, 1995 issue. I first read the story nearly a decade later in a high school course on American literature, and it has stuck with me ever since.


End file.
